Painful Reminders
by swaggyzebraTW
Summary: Sweets is getting ready to leave for home when he looks in the mirror. Seeing the scars on his back, he is sucked into the pain of his terrible childhood. How bad was his life as a child? Find out. Episode tag to season four, episode eleven. "Mayhem On A Cross". Rated T for violence. Slight Booth/Brennan mentioned.


**AN: Hello! This is my first fic for bones, and I may have gotten some facts wrong. This is about Sweets' past; which I know almost nothing about. The only episode i have seen involving major information about him was Mayhem on a Cross, which I just watched an hour ago. That episode had encouraged me to write this; so I hope everyone enjoys this. I am supposed to be studying for my math test, but I wrote this instead. It better be worth it, and if I fail; you all know why. I am happy that Bones is back, and I loved the first two episodes! I wish to see more Sweets this year, and some more Brennan/ Booth romance. Anyway, please review this. Each review is really helpful; because of my age. I know I have some facts wrong; please do not rub it in my face. I just began to regularly watch the show last season. Enjoy.**  
**Disclaimer: I do not own Bones. All rights go to fox. I am making no money from this. Thank You.**

Painful Reminders:  
I glanced in the mirror, only to see the scars that littered my back. The red tips of my scarred flesh contrasted significantly against the pale skin of my back, displaying the pain of my childhood. Every lash of my biological father's whip; seemingly sewn into my soul, along with my skin. My whole upper torso mapped with every lashing from when I was only three; just a toddler. A child. A human being, with a beating heart. I hadn't even been tainted by his actions, his words. Yet, my innocence had been overlooked by him. It hadn't mattered, hadn't saved me from the countless lashings. There had been no god that day, none that I could find myself able to pray to; not one that could save me or make a difference.  
I still remember the day that my father had first brought his whip upon my back; wrapped his chains about my soul. Despite me only being forty-one months old; I still could recall every painstaking detail of that first lashing. On a particularly bad day, I can still find myself looking back on that September afternoon, feeling his words eat my insides, his crop lashing at my exterior.  
It had been chilly on the twenty-third of September. I remember that the glass on the windows of our house had been fogged, and the wood-stove had been filled with wood. Whenever I had gone outside, I could see my breath with each exhale; but my jacket had kept me warm. On the outside.  
I had asked my father if I could go play soccer with a few of the boys on my street. He had said, "Sure, as long as you fill the stove before you go," and I had agreed to do so. However, being only three years of age, I had forgotten, going out to play as soon as my jacket and boots were on. That had been my mistake, forgetting one task. By accident, but neglecting none the less; and when I had arrived home, I had been beaten. Badly.  
My father had originally used his hands, spanking me until I sobbed and whimpered in apology. It hadn't been enough. He began to slap my face, making it sting, and turn a bright pink. The pain then had been agonizing, yet he didn't stop. Punches were delivered to my gut, making me double over in pain. While I was down, he ripped my shirt off, before racing out of the room to get something. I had never seen him move so fast.  
He had come back only seconds later, whip in hand. I hadn't enough time to get back to my feet, yet he slapped me further to the floor. Even that hadn't been anything in comparison to the pain that the whip brought me. Even today, I would take a hundred slaps before a few lashes. At least the slaps never brought blood, never tainted my skin with permanent scarring. The slaps never left me covered in large pools of crimson; never made me lie motionless on the floor, beneath my "father".  
He was supposed to love me. I had been a good child, done nothing wrong. I was cute, and smart. I had done well with obedience, and had a promising future ahead of me. Yet, that had not been enough to buy his love. Even being his own son, his own creation, had not brought his love upon me. It had only seemed to fuel his hatred farther. He needed no drugs, no alcohol; to make this decision for himself. My father had already found reasons to hate me; which I still did not know. What could I have possibly done as a baby to make him hate me?  
Whatever I had done, fueled his anger; his body. He had moved his arm so fast, lowering it with such precision, bringing the whip down on my body with an audible crack. The pain had blazed through my spine, down to my toes, and back up to my chest. I had cried out, which he had only laughed at. My father had grinned at my pain, smirking at my agonized whimpers. His laugh had become sadistic, demonic.  
After that first lashing, he had continued to bring the whip down upon my back, making a tick-tac-toe board that would be permanently etched into my flesh. Like a tattoo. A satanic marking that would always be seen by anyone who looked at it. It would never fade; never be removed. My father knew that; just like he knew how much he was hurting me.  
"Please, stop. I am so sorry," I had sobbed to him, begging for mercy. He showed none.  
The whip continued to come down on my back another ten times, maybe fifteen, before he finally stepped away, leaving me broken and bruised. He had said then, "I hope you learned your lesson," and walked out of the room, pointing at the fireplace.  
I had been to weak to move for five minutes, so I had remained on the floor. I had been able to feel the sickening, sticky, steady flow of blood pouring down my back. The bruises had formed, and I had actually felt them growing. My face still stung from the slaps. My gut was still sore. But I had forced myself to stand anyway. My father had told me to fill the fire place, so that is what I did.  
I had forced myself to walk across the room, which took me much longer then it should have. I had passed my shirt on the floor, and left it there; not wanting to get it dirty, or dye it red with my own blood. Glancing back, I had seen a puddle of red liquid on the floor. My own blood.  
I remember gagging a little at the sight, before filling the stove. The task had been so painful; yet I had done it anyway, only to avoid more pain. Emotional pain, and physical pain, worst then the pain of filling the stove. So, I had filled it. And, I had never forgotten to fill it again. Yet, I had still gotten whipped later. For other "reasons" that my father had come up with; before I had been taken away.  
My head whipped back into reality, staring at myself in the mirror of the _Men's_ locker room at work. A public area. I had no idea how long I had been out; thinking about my wretched past; but it had been too long. I had spent too much time looking at the long, parallel lines down my back. It was time to go. It was time to put my shirt on, and go home.  
Just as I reached for the blue cotton shirt, I saw movement from the corner of my eye. Quickly pulling on the fabric, masking my wounds, I abruptly turned around. Standing by one of the _men's_ lockers was Temperance Brennan, Bones. She wore a sorrow expression on her face, and I knew she had seen them.  
"I'm so sorry, Sweets." She whispered softly, barely audible from my spot across the room.  
I said nothing. I didn't want to say anything. She already knew of the origin of these wounds, and she had told me of s few of her own. We both had terrible pasts. There was nothing else to say. What was done is done. I can not change that. I can not give myself a new biological father; or take myself back in time. That was known.  
She spoke again, only a little louder. "Are you okay?"  
I shook my head. There was no point in lying anymore. "Wait, what are you doing in the _Men's_ locker room?!" I asked, surprise making its way to my features.  
"Umm..." She paused and sighed before continuing. "I was looking for Booth."  
Of course she was. "So you guys are back together?"  
"You could say that. But it doesn't matter. Are you okay, Sweets?" She asked once again, relentless.  
There was nothing left to tell but the painful, dreadfully honest, truth. "No, I'm not."  
**AN: Okay, there it was. Strictly one chapter. I think. Review, I hope you all liked it. Please read some of my other stories, I am currently writing an NCIS fic, which I like quite a bit. :/ Anyway, thanks for reading, and have a great day.**


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